by Allison Lane
But her father had been at least partially right. Jack was a hero many times over. As a soldier, he had always been larger than life, leading his men against seemingly impossible odds, achieving his goals, and coming out alive. She had worshiped him, awed at his prowess even when she feared for his safety. But she had never learned to know the inner Jack. What had driven him? It was too late to find out. Perhaps that explained why she felt so empty now. Her love was shallow and limited, never really encompassing the whole man.
She shivered, and Norwood’s arms tightened. Blinking away one last tear, she sighed. “Wellington described Jack as the perfect knight-errant, and he was right. Peace would have made him miserable, and that would have permanently impaired our marriage. Much as I miss him, I have accepted that he was better off dying at Waterloo. There are not enough dragons left to keep him busy.”
“Perhaps you would be happier if you had had children,” he murmured, though how they could have managed a family during a war, he didn’t know.
“Perhaps, but I knew before we married that it was impossible. Buenos Aires stole that from him..” She pulled away to check on Oliver.
Norwood ignored the tears again shining in her eyes. His own chest seemed suspiciously constricted. Mrs. Morrison was like no other woman he had ever met, and she touched him in ways he had never before experienced. She deserved far more than life in a country market town, tending the sick and teaching music to the gentry. In that moment he decided that he would find her something better. Once he was married to Emily, he would bring her to London to look for the husband she deserved. He did not believe that Jack Morrison had been that man. He might have been a great hero, but he was not a good spouse. And if Thorne objected, he would accept a family rift. Lady Amanda was too precious to bury in the country.
He changed the subject to Mr. Stevens’s injuries and excused himself some minutes later when she had regained her composure.
Chapter Fourteen
Norwood gave up trying to find a comfortable position. Pushing the coverlet to one side, he climbed down and drew on his dressing gown. It was going to be another night when sleep did not come easily. There had been too many of them lately.
He paced the floor for several minutes, his mind churning uselessly. Annabelle had occupied his thoughts more in the past fortnight than she had in years. It was probably inevitable since he was embarking on matrimony again, but there was no excuse for discussing her with someone else. He felt powerless, unable to control even his own tongue.
Or perhaps Lady Amanda really was a witch. She had induced him to relate things he had never shared with another living soul and had forced him to honestly evaluate his life. He was beginning to realize that he had been all but dead since his first marriage. The lessons he had drawn from his mishandling of Annabelle were important, but he had carried them too far. By preventing any possibility of further pain, he had also eliminated all potential for enjoyment.
He stopped to gaze out the window. The storm had moved on. A full moon bathed the gardens in silvery light, glinting invitingly off a distant lake. Impulsively, he threw on his clothes and left the house.
Laying Annabelle’s ghost to rest had removed an enormous weight from his heart – which explained his restlessness. Excitement and energy were bubbling up, making him feel twenty again. He had Amanda to thank for it. Her caring compassion was new to his experience. She promised to make an admirable sister-in-law.
And what kind of wife would Emily make? His euphoria faded. Unfortunately, his ideas about marriage had undergone considerable change. The cold, emotionless façade he had hidden behind for the last ten years was not his true self. Drifting was unrewarding. He needed to inject some commitment into his life, to build a loving relationship with Emily.
But the prospects were daunting.
He frowned into a reflecting pool as he recited the attributes that had led him to choose her in the first place – proper, unemotional, undemanding. What a negative list, and the discussion they had held after dinner did not relieve his anxiety. He had been trying to discover some mutual interests that would provide a foundation for friendship. But he was not having much luck.
“Papa has very definite ideas on education,” she stated coldly. “He despises bluestockings and would never countenance rearing one.”
“But knowing a little Shakespeare is hardly blue,” he countered. “Every lady in London attends his plays regularly. One must be able to discuss the theater.”
“I don’t see why. It is such a bore,” she said on a long sigh.
“What did you enjoy during the Season, then?” he asked.
“All that is proper, of course. Almack’s, walking in the park, paying calls..” She lifted a delicate brow. “One has a duty to participate in society.”
“Is that what is important to you then? Duty?”
“Of course. I have been well-trained.”
“And what do you see as your duty?”
“Obedience to my father and my husband. Wifely duties are very explicit – running the house, dispensing aid to the tenants, providing an heir, upholding my position in the world.”
He had dropped the subject, for it all sounded so dull. She had shown no interest in any of it. Life with Emily offered few rewards. Even worse was an overheard snatch of conversation an hour later. He had been heading for his room when he chanced to pass Emily’s sitting room. Miss Havershoal was laughing at something Emily had just said.
“But surely you look forward to the intimacy of marriage.”
“Victoria!” Emily’s shock halted her friend’s mirth. “A lady neither enjoys nor discusses such things. And once I produce an heir, I will not have to concern myself with it. All gentlemen keep mistresses, thank heaven.”
“I have heard differently,” countered her friend.
“You must have some very low acquaintances,” charged Emily, all trace of approval gone. “Mother warned me about keeping low company. Their depraved ideas can rub off, as you have just demonstrated. No one will respect you if you harbor such thoughts. Once she knew she was dying, she made sure I learned all I would need for the future. In truth, that part of marriage is painful and disgusting, but one must tolerate it if one wishes to maintain a proper place in society. There is no other way to fulfill one’s duty to provide an heir.”
It was that that bedeviled him now. While he had kept mistresses for years, it was not something he had done during even the worst times of his marriage and he had no interest in doing so in the future. He wanted both companionship and commitment from his union, and it did not sound as if he would find either. Was there enough warmth buried beneath Emily’s coldness that he could eventually coax a little enjoyment from her? It was doubtful. Emily had dismissed Miss Havershoal in terms that indicated their friendship was over. It brought to mind a tale he had discredited about her terminating another friendship the previous summer because Miss Simpson refused to condemn a prank. The future was beginning to look even worse than the past.
* * * *
Dr. Robinson arrived near dawn. Amanda smiled in relief. Oliver had awakened several times during the night, continued discomfort making him restless. She had fed him broth, barley water, and a tisane that reduced his pain, but it had not been enough. Until the doctor saw him, she refused to use laudanum, fearing that it might mask something important.
The doctor’s diagnosis was concussion. He commended her care and prescribed bed rest until the headache eased, but declared that there was no further need for continuous observation. Oliver’s thinking was rational, his memory unimpaired.
Amanda returned home immediately, but sleep eluded her. It was not the strain of nursing, for that had never been troublesome. This was worse, for the emptiness of her life tormented her. What was it that made her unlovable? Her family had never cared. Her husband could not. Even Granny Gossich had harbored no deep attachment. Theirs had been a complicated relationship. She suspected that Granny’s interest grew out of an ong
oing feud with Thorne. By supporting Amanda’s rebellions, she could avenge herself of an unknown injustice.
Amanda had rebelled often as a child, and not always from conviction. Thorne had controlled her behavior as much as if she were obedient. He had only to forbid something to make her do it. Would she have visited Granny if her father had condoned it? Not in the beginning, certainly, though once her interest in herbs and cures was piqued, she went on her own account.
It was time to take herself in hand and plot a course for the future. The truth was that she was lonely. It wasn’t only Jack that she missed, but the camaraderie of the regiment. They had been her family for many years. They were her brothers, sharing and caring without restraint, openly grateful for her assistance and concern. In spite of the pain of losing so many of them, the years had been rewarding. Now there was nothing.
Her conversation with Norwood teased her mind. She was amazed that he had induced her to discuss her marriage, especially the confusion at the end. There was something about the man that begged confidences. This was not the first time she had bared her soul in his presence. It was still surprising how much she had told him about Waterloo and her experiences on the Peninsula.
Again she felt the strong arms that cradled her and the soft hands that had stroked her hair – as if he were comforting an injured child, she told herself firmly, though where that image came from, she could not explain. Her own childhood certainly did not produce it.
Tingling heat washed through her and she gasped. It had been too long since she had felt a male body pressed so close to her own. Way too long.
Enough! She could not lie quietly in bed with the turmoil that raged through her breast. Donning an old cloak, she strode toward the woods, her heedless feet crushing damp plants, creating a pungent cloud of herbal scents that swirled around her.
Was this what happened when grief waned? Having come to terms with the past, she was no longer fettered by the blue devils that had dogged her since Waterloo. Surely that was the only explanation for this sudden desire to crawl into bed with Norwood. She blushed, recalling the feel of a muscular shoulder under her cheek. It was insignificant, a natural outgrowth of the situation.
And that was scandalous itself. What had possessed her to remain in a bedchamber for two hours with a gentleman – alone! The sleeping Mr. Stevens could not be considered a chaperone. Not even years of following the drum could excuse such unconventional behavior.
The forest thinned and Amanda leaned against the last tree to watch the brightening eastern sky where a few wisps of pink-tinged clouds still lingered from the storm. There was no point trying to blame the situation or to pass off her desire as a reaction to a year alone. The attraction was to Norwood himself. Not to the haughty duke, of course, but to the unhappy man beneath the shell. They had so much in common. But that would never do. It would be bad enough if he were someone who would soon pass out of her life, but he was to be her brother-in-law. She could not form a tendre there.
Yet the feeling would not depart. She wished with all her heart that she could help him regain the happiness she suspected he had known as a boy. His coldness was not natural. His disdain was contrived. He had the potential to become an intensely emotional man if he allowed himself to care. And he had no urge to waste himself by courting constant danger.
She gasped as the full weight of her folly slammed into her heart.
She loved him.
“Dear God, no!” she whispered even as she acknowledged the truth. Already, her feelings were stronger than she had ever experienced before. How could she have been so stupid? Norwood’s future was settled – marriage to her sister. She shivered. Emily was not the wife he needed. Amanda did not want to consider how barren the rest of his life would be.
Sighing, she turned her feet toward home. It was obvious that she could not stay in Middleford. She wanted no continuing relationship with her relatives, for they had little in common. But having acknowledged her as his daughter, Thorne would now feel obligated to include her in family gatherings. With her feelings for Norwood, that would be impossible. She must find a new refuge. Perhaps she could convince Thorne that they would both be happier if she moved elsewhere. He would probably be relieved.
* * * *
Oliver gingerly prodded the knot on his head. The pain had diminished until it no longer triggered waves of nausea. With luck, he could manage with only one day in bed.
Someone rapped on his door.
“Come in,” he called, assuming it was the housekeeper with yet another posset or dish of gruel to poke into him.
Emily opened the door and crossed to the bed.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You are the last person to breach propriety to this extent.”
“I had to see how you were. Everyone says you will recover, but you were unconscious for so long that I could hardly believe it.”
He caught his breath at the fear blazing in her eyes. It was the most emotion she had ever displayed.
“I truly am fine, Lady Emily,” he murmured soothingly. “Both your sister and the doctor agree that there will be no problems, so you may set your mind at rest. I owe a great debt to Norwood, of course. If he had not happened along, things would have gone quite differently.”
She ignored the reference to her betrothed. “You are truly all right? You are not just saying that to ease my mind?” Her hand fluttered in agitation with the words.
“Truly, my dear,” he assured her, drawing the hand to his lips.
She exhaled in a long sigh of relief.
“Do you care that much?” he asked, almost without volition.
“You are one of my dearest friends,” she replied primly.
“No, Emily, that won’t do,” he exploded, voice suddenly harsh. “I cannot allow this farce to continue. You must know how much I love you. And you love me as well, don’t you?”
Tears started in her eyes. She remained silent but her head moved in the barest of nods.
“Emily, my dearest girl,” he choked, pulling her down where he could kiss her. And she responded, one hand threading his hair as her mouth opened to his own. For nearly a minute she clung to him until reality returned.
“No, we mustn’t,” she cried, appalled at her actions.
“Don’t leave,” he commanded as she broke away and ran for the door. She paused to look back. “Think well, my love. If you marry Norwood, you will spend the rest of your life in misery. You cannot possibly care for him. I’ve seen the way you avoid his company. Do you think anything will change later on?”
“Of course not. He has no interest in anything beyond an heir.”
“Emily, my love,” he pleaded. “You deserve so much better. And I can give it to you.”
“There is nothing to be done,” she stated, her voice cracking into a sob. “It is my duty to marry well. The betrothal is already arranged. You cannot deny that the connection is all that is proper.”
He sighed in resignation. “No, not if all that matters is a list of assets and liabilities on a piece of paper. But I thought you wanted more than that, like love and tenderness and warmth. You are a person, Emily. A living, breathing being with needs and interests and desires of your own. So is Norwood. So am I. The duke can give you a title, but never his heart. A title can be a cold, empty commodity when you are facing yet another night alone. You and I belong together, as you must admit if you examine your heart. It is not too late.”
“You do not know my father,” she cried, stumbling out of the room. “It was too late the day I was born.”
He sighed. Why had he even tried? Poor Emily. She had been taught to revere duty above all else, even if that meant burying her real self under an icy facade that all too soon would freeze both heart and soul. As soon as he rose from his bed, he must leave. He could not remain to listen as her betrothal was announced to the public. Even his usual good humor could not survive that.
* * * *
“Yes, Ellen?” asked Amand
a when the maid appeared in her doorway. She had just returned from teaching and hoped this was not a call for medical attention. After being up all night, she was tired.
“A Mr. Grayson to see you, ma’am,” reported Ellen, bobbing a curtsy. She held out a calling card.
“Show him in..” She stared at the engraved card. W. M. Grayson of Grayson, Grayson, & Smith, solicitors. Had her father discovered some new way to command obedience?
Mr. Grayson was nonthreatening, a lean, modest man in his fifties whose thinning gray hair and thick spectacles complemented his thin-lipped mouth and permanently stooped shoulders. They exchanged pleasantries for some minutes until Ellen had delivered a tea tray and withdrawn from the room.
“Your husband was John Peter Morrison, son of Edward Rawlings Morrison of Herefordshire?” he asked.
“I believe that was his father’s name, though Jack never spoke of his family. There was a well-established rift between them.”
“What do you know of his family?”
“His mother was the youngest daughter of Viscount Brodley. Her maternal uncle was Mr. George Comfray, who owned an estate some fifteen miles from here. And Jack had a brother, William, who refused to acknowledge any relationship between them. I fear that is all.”
“Have you met none of them then?”
“Only Uncle George. We stayed with him for some months after our marriage.”
“And when were you wed?”
“March 22, 1807. What is this to the purpose?”
“I must establish your identity. Have you your marriage lines?”
Amanda retrieved them from her desk. Mr. Grayson compared Jack’s signature to a paper he pulled from his pocket and nodded.
